There’s something truly magical about a good pair of sweatpants. Your brand of choice might include the elastic at the bottom, or the name of a school down the side. Mine are an old pair of yoga pants that belonged to my best friend—borrowed during a sleepover and then never returned—like sisterhood of the magical sweatpants.
I’m assuming they used to be black, although now they’re a dull almost grey—and they could fit my best friend and I inside of them, leaving extra room for your butt and thighs.
But the beauty of sweatpants is that the brand doesn’t matter. The color and the shape are irrelevant too—sweatpants just aren’t that type of friend.
The beauty of sweatpants is what they allow you to do—the outside of yourself reflecting something that your insides so desperately need.
They don’t require anything from you—not asking you to hold it in or push them out. They don’t pinch, don’t gather and don’t ride up. They allow you to twist and move, to sleep or to run, giving your body space to breathe.
One of my favorite things is that the outside of our world so often reflects the inside, and in the case of sweatpants this couldn’t be more true.
There’s something fun about putting on a really great outfit—something that adds an extra spring to your step, a vote of confidence as people comment on a necklace or a new pair of shoes.
But so often that clothing requires just as much of you as it gives. It pinches and pulls and rides up. It requires you to sit funny, to cross your legs a certain way or to walk in smaller steps.
And by the end of an exhausting day, that’s how I feel, on the inside and the outside.
I feel pinched and pushed and pulled. I feel stiff and uptight and like I’m constantly having to perform.
I sit up straight and keep my shirt tucked in, and keep myself organized and my to-do list short.
But at a certain point in the day, I just can’t do it anymore.
At some point in the day, those clothes and that day have required so much of us that we have no more to give. And that’s where sweatpants come in.
They’re the perfect coming home present—a cup of tea and a blanket to wrap around your shoulders. They’re like a hug from your dad or the smell of your mom’s cooking in the oven.
They’re comfortable and forgiving, and give you room to breathe in every sense.
They may not be the most attractive thing you could wear, but they don’t require you to be attractive either. They allow you to let the smile fade for a second, let your hair be tied up in a knot on top of your head, and allow your face a few make-up free minutes to breathe.
They allow you to cry if you need to—to feel small and just a little bit whiney. They allow you to not have it all together, and they love you anyway, reminding you that approval and perfection have never been their gig.
And today, that’s exactly what I needed.
I needed something cozy and soft to wrap myself in when I came home—something forgiving and comforting to remind me that it’s all ok, and that I’m ok, and that my soul can finally relax and curl up—finally taking a breath.
So sweatpants, thank you.
Your biggest fan,